BENEATH LOST GROUND Read online

  On closer examination, the woman appeared to have had the same gunshot wounds as her husband— one in the chest, and one in the head.

  “No sign of the boy, Detective,” came a voice from near the door.

  Brophy turned to answer but quickly saw it wasn’t he who was addressed. It was Detective Sergeant Christine McCall. The tall, athletic blonde sergeant had entered the room unknown to Brophy who was subsumed in a sort of dark tunnel, with only the elements of the brutal crime present in his seclusion. A state of mind he often got into at crime scenes in recent years. He agonised over whether it was a good thing, a focusing strategy to help him take in the scene, or a hindrance, his unconscious mind telling him he was growing further imprisoned by a job he was not sure he wanted any longer.

  “Okay, Sergeant Halpin. Proceed with the search around the perimeter. Focus on the woods and the beach, and quickly. It’s about to get dark soon.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” said Halpin and turned on his heel to leave the room.

  McCall approached Brophy. “What a mess we have here, Detective. Are you all right, Garda Mallon?” she said before Brophy had a chance to reply.

  “Yes, Ma’am. Just a little hot.”

  “You can go out and join the search now. There’s no need for you to be here.”

  “Yes, Sergeant McCall.”

  Mallon swiftly left the room.

  “That was a bit harsh, Brophy. Making her witness this.”

  “She has to see it at some stage.”

  “I’ve certainly never seen anything like this in my ten years.”

  “What do we know so far?” asked Brophy. The tension between the two equally ranked detectives was palpable. McCall had had a similar career trajectory to Brophy, making detective and then sergeant before the age of thirty. But unlike him, she was still ambitious.

  “Shots fired just before seven. Local garda was on the scene a short while later. Front door was left wide open, so he came in and found these two like this,” she said, glancing at each of the victims.

  “What do we know about them?”

  “Jordan and Maura Walters. He owns Bioford Laboratory in the industrial estate. Employs about seventy people, mostly high-skilled technicians and researchers.”

  “And the wife?”

  “Maura Walters, née Roache. Housewife and well-known in social circles in the city. Heavily involved in charity work around town, chairwoman of the Waterford Regional Cardiac Unit Fund.”

  “Surprised I haven’t heard of her before.”

  “Maybe you should get out more often then. The family are big fish around the city. The lab was started by Jordan’s father, Kevin Walters, in the eighties. He ran it right up until his death a few years ago.”

  “You haven’t wasted any time, have you?”

  “Your man, Gough seemed to know a bit about them, being the most prominent family in his district, and all.”

  “Didn’t happen to know if they had any enemies who’d wanted to shoot them in the head and chest during dinner?”

  “Afraid not. That’s going to be up to us to find out. The state pathologist is on her way down from Dublin now.”

  “Not leaving it to the local coroner, then?”

  “This is too big for that. The media are going to be all over this one. And Bennett’s going to expect results, and fast. He won’t want the Dublin units coming down here and taking over. Not when the South East Headquarters plan is in review.”

  McCall went over to take another look at Jordan Walter’s body whilst Brophy crouched to take a closer look at Maura Walters. He couldn’t help but think how glamorous and beautiful she must have been in life, a life that was snubbed out so viciously. His thoughts turned to the missing boy, and he became engulfed by the dark tunnel once more. He couldn’t make sense of it. Why would someone kill the parents and take the boy? Was he even there when his parents were slain?

  Before he had a chance to form a single theory, an earth-shattering scream that arose from the front of the house wrenched him out of the darkness. He locked eyes with McCall, their curiosity registering identically in their eyes. Who the hell was that?

  They headed out of the dining room and down the hall towards the front door. When Brophy went out, he saw Bennett and Gough holding back a blonde woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties. She was screaming, and her eyes bulged in despair.

  “What happened? Where is my Seán? Let me go. What’s going on?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Incident Room in Waterford Garda Station was like any other in a large town or city across the country. Desks packed with files and folders took up most of the floor space, and each had a computer standing idle in the corner, guarded by a stained coffee mug at that late hour on a Thursday night in July. Filing cabinets jostled for most of the remaining space, particularly by the walls. Except for the back wall, which was panelled in light coloured wood with a long table situated in front. That was where the team would assemble to discuss ongoing cases, using the wall to tack up various exhibits of evidence, and photos of suspects and their victims.

  Tonight the wall was bare, and a dozen or so officers took up positions, either seated at the table or standing against the cabinets awaiting the senior investigating officer, Detective Inspector Bennett. He finally arrived, pacing across the room, talking angrily into his mobile.

  “Keep that shower away,” Brophy heard most distinctly, knowing the pressure Bennett would be feeling to handle the case locally and not have a specialist unit come down from Dublin, undermining their efforts, and to Bennett’s mind, making a fool of him. Brophy secretly hoped they’d arrive as soon as possible and had little doubt it was only a matter of time before they did.

  Bennett rounded the table and stood against the panelled wall. His six-foot-three frame imposed an aura of authority, matched only by his ceaseless ambition. He took off his hat and ruffled his sweat-soaked black hair.

  “Sergeant Kenneally, you’re the inside officer on this case. What do we have so far?”

  Brophy wasn’t surprised Kenneally would coordinate things on the inside. He had a great touch for collating information but didn’t like to get his hands dirty on the outside. Brophy wasn’t sure if he could fit in the front seat of the squad car at that stage, having ballooned in weight since his wife had their third child a year ago.

  “Two victims and a child unaccounted for. Male victim is one Jordan Walters, forty-one years old. The female victim is Maura Walters, thirty-eight. Obviously, a wealthy family. Made their money mostly from agricultural and food testing, GMO and nutrition analysis, and the likes. That’s what they do in Bioford, their lab in the industrial estate that employs about seventy people. Walters seems to be a quiet family man. Came up clean on the PULSE system. Not even a parking ticket. Had trouble with a couple of burglaries about a year ago. Nothing much taken. Thieves never apprehended,” said Kenneally.

  “How about the wife?” asked Sergeant McCall.

  “Used to be a lab technician in the same line of business but gave it up when they had their child, Seán.”

  “So, he was her boss?” asked McCall, her contempt visible as she stood, legs firmly apart, hands clasped behind her back.

  “No,” said Kenneally. “This is where it gets interesting. Her mother’s maiden name is Donahue, making her the niece of Barry Donahue. He owns Qualchem Labs over by the Waterford Crystal Centre. That would make him Walters’ main competitor in the city.”

  “Okay. That’s good. We need to look into that first thing in the morning. I’m sure he’s been informed about his niece by now. Give him the night to let it sink in, then see if there’s anything between him and Walters,” said Bennett. “Any word on CCTV images?”

  “Got a call from Garda Neven a while ago,” said Detective Paul Dunford, in a thick west Cork accent. A young detective with cropped ginger hair and a square jaw who looked like he should be playing in the back-line of the Irish Rugby team. “She said they tracked down the nearest ca
mera to the village, two kilometres away. There’s a pub-cum-supermarket there with a small car park. One of the two cameras covers the entrances to the pub and shop, and the other is faced on the car park, but also catches a bend on the road coming from the direction of the house. She said we should get a clear view of the cars, but it was busy today. Loads of people from the city at the beaches out there today. They’re some of the most popular in the county, apparently.”

  “And the search for the boy?” said Brophy, worrying that a quiver might be detected in his voice.

  “There’s a team in the area now, made up of Civil Defence volunteers and some locals, but nothing yet,” said Garda Lonergan, a balding uniformed Garda in his fifties, who sat at the end of the table. “They’ve covered most of the area, but there are eight square kilometres of it, so they can’t be sure. Tech team will have a closer look in the morning.”

  “What have Tech come back with so far?” asked Bennett.

  “Nothing official, of course,” said Kenneally, “and the state pathologist should be arriving shortly, but unofficially, the victims were shot twice each, head and heart. No sign of forced entry, and the front door was left open.”

  “Maybe the boy did a runner, and he’s still going,” added Brophy.

  “Let’s hope so,” said Kenneally before looking at his notes and adding, “The dining table was set for four, but only three people ate. Apparently, there was enough for five more people in the oven.”

  “And family in the area?” said Bennett.

  “Walters has none. Both his parents have passed away, and the extended family are mostly from Dublin. We need to look into that a bit more. There’s a few Donahues in the city, but not many. Maura Walters has no siblings. Jordan Walters has one sister, Ciara, who I believe made an appearance at the house and is waiting in Interview Room One with Garda Mallon, as we speak.”

  Bennett looked to Brophy. “When we’re done here, you and McCall interview her, see what you can get.”

  “Yes, Sir,” said McCall, whilst Brophy remained silent and looked to the ground, scuffing his brown leather shoe along the thin blue carpet.

  “Okay, everyone. There’s not much we can do tonight, but first thing in the morning, I want you all on your briefs like flies on shit. Let’s wrap this one up quickly, show them what we’re made of at this station. Eyes are on us, and if we want this to be the headquarters for the South East, we need to show that we’re closers.”

  They all nodded and spoke in affirmative monosyllables and shuffled away from the Incident Room, all lost in their thoughts, knowing the next few days would be amongst the most intense they’ve had on the force. Brophy hung back at the behest of a nod from Bennett. McCall hesitated, as if she expected to be kept firmly in the loop but turned and headed out with a barely restrained scowl as Bennett gave her a patronising wave to usher her on her way.

  “Conal, I need your A-game on this one. You’re the best investigator of the lot of them, but I want your head in the right place.”

  “Sir, maybe McCall would be more suitable to lead things on this. She’s well switched on.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Bennett, grimacing with disgust at the thought. “She’s a maverick, out only for herself.”

  Some man to be making that accusation, Brophy thought.

  “Wrap this up like I know you can, and soon enough, you’ll be able to run the show like you should have been years ago.”

  “That’s your job, isn’t it?”

  “Only by default, Conal, and we both know it. I’ll never understand why you turned down this position, but as soon as this place is upgraded, Superintendent Russell will retire. I’ll take his place, and you’re the new detective inspector.”

  “If this place is upgraded,” sniped Brophy.

  “You heard there’s been talk about them making Carlow station the HQ,” said Bennett uneasily. “That’s just another way of them saying everything will still be run from Dublin. Let’s catch the shooter on this one and find that poor boy.”

  Brophy bowed his head at the mention of the missing boy.

  “Don’t get personally involved. You work much better that way. Now, go and interview the Walters woman, see what she knows.”

  The two men, who used to be close friends, and had a solid partnership back in the day, looked at each other awkwardly.

  “Dismissed, Sergeant Brophy,” said Bennett.

  Brophy couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Brophy glimpsed in the small Plexiglas window on the door to Interview Room One. Garda Mallon sat on the brown leather couch with her arm around an inconsolable, Ciara Walters.

  “Shall we get this over with?” said McCall who had joined him outside the door.

  Brophy opened the door and slowly stepped into the brightly lit room, keeping his eye on Garda Mallon. The young garda moved to stand up but was held down by the sobbing aunt of the missing boy.

  “Ms Walters?” said McCall in a voice softer than Brophy had ever heard her utter.

  Ciara Walters raised her head from Mallon’s shoulder and looked at McCall and Brophy with blood-shot watery eyes. Brophy couldn’t help but notice the lack of make-up streaks despite all the tears.

  “I’m Detective Sergeant McCall and this is Detective Sergeant Brophy. I know this is an extremely difficult time, but the sooner we get some information from you, the better a chance we have of catching who did this and of finding your nephew.”

  Walters took in a deep, composing breath, smacking her lips and wiping under her eyes with her thumbs.

  “Of course,” said Walters in an easily recognisable South Dublin accent. “Have you any idea what happened yet? Oh, God, please find him,” she said, struggling to hold back another sob. She inhaled another gulp of coffee-scented air.

  “We have a large team out looking as we speak,” said Brophy. “But the next twenty-four hours are crucial, so we need to know as much as possible if we’re to find him and figure out who’s responsible for this.”

  “I was supposed to take him to Dublin with me for the weekend. That’s why I was coming down. I was meant to be at dinner with them, but I got delayed.”

  That would explain the extra food, well, some of it, at least.

  Brophy and McCall sat on the armchairs at either end of the couch. Walters straightened her back and pulled an expression of determination like she was going to do what was necessary to help the detectives. People often froze at that early stage of an investigation, either because of suspicions directed at the police or because they were too crippled with grief at hearing of the loss of a family member.

  “Firstly, Ms Walters,” said Brophy. “Is there anyone you would immediately suspect of doing this to your brother and sister-in-law? I mean, did they have any enemies you know of?”

  Walters face softened, and Brophy couldn’t help observing her sheer beauty, like a perfectly ageing Hollywood actress. “Jordan was very reserved, even by our family’s standard. He’d do anything to avoid confrontation. He ran our father’s business and kept his head down. As far as I know, he didn’t even socialise that much in recent years.”

  “How about Maura?” asked McCall.

  “Maura was the opposite, in many ways. A bit of a go-getter. Gets along with everyone. I can’t imagine her having enemies, though.”

  “How was their marriage?” asked McCall, drawing a quizzical look from Ciara Walters.

  “Their marriage seemed great. They’ve always been very committed to each other and were great parents. Oh, please find Seán. He must be terrified wherever he is.”

  “We’ll do everything we can,” said Brophy. “It’s come to our attention that Maura was the niece of one Mr Barry Donahue.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Are he and Jordan serious rivals?”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” she said, expressing she knew what they were getting at by a flick of her eyebrows. “My dad and Mr Donahue would have
been much bigger competitors. They both started their labs in the eighties when this kind of work would have been scarce enough. They would have outbid each other on some contracts, but these days there should be more business than they can keep up with. It’s a thriving sector.”

  “Do either of them have any friends you’ve ever been suspicious of?” asked McCall.

  Walters’ poise faltered, and she looked to the ground for the briefest of moments.

  “What is it, Ms Walters?” asked Brophy.

  “I don’t know if I should say it. It might be nothing.”

  “If anything creates the vaguest amount of scepticism, then you shouldn’t keep it back,” Brophy replied.

  “Something my dad and he argued about many years ago. Jordan went to private school in Blackrock, you see. The same private school as Bobby Quilty.”

  Brophy and McCall glanced at each other, McCall’s nostrils flaring. Bobby Quilty, born to wealth and privilege, went on to become the head of Ireland’s biggest crime family, smuggling most of the cocaine to be found in the country. He was now living in the lap of luxury in Bahrain after evading capture and arrest, when the rest of his crew were brought down in operation, Swift Downpour, or wiped out by their rival cartel, the Doyles.

  “They were close in school, and I think they remained friends afterwards, but Jordan would never admit to it,” Ciara Walters added.

  “Okay. That’s good to know. We should look into that,” said McCall.